June 2010

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion’s
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay –
O I loved too much and by such, by such, is happiness thrown

I gave her gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret sign that’s known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over
fields of May.

On a quiet stret where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay –
When the angel woos the clay he’d lose his wings at the dawn of


How shall we build our summer palaces?
Will the girls bring us sherbet, and our gardens
Brown to the filgree of Chinese lanterns?

The Emperor speaks in a long robe of thunder,
Bruising us cloudily; his combs of rain
Dance out a dance of more than seven veils. (more…)

The world is a beautiful book, but of little use to him who cannot read it.

Where do they go, the dead we’ve known?
We’ve seen their bodies variously
Disposed of – in fire, graves, the sea
On hard occasions. Their souls have flown. (more…)

Though we shall never travel to the stars
We’ve put a rover on the face of Mars
And all the troubles which on earth accrue
Will soon apply to the red planet too.

The sun appears above a salmon sky
Lighting the Martian genius loci
And stalking plains, no living creature thriving,
Reveals a solemn sight, of rats arriving.

Travel is a return to the essential

The real traveller has no idea where they are going

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